Sherlock Arcade
by Shadowed Voices
Summary: Sherlock beat the game out of spite. Then there was the little blonde boy and his way was far more amusing. Sherlock and John as kids. No slash. Under revision.
1. Chapter 1 The Arcade

**AN: I'm trying to get back into writing this story so I will be editing the chapters. So it has taken so long for, well, anything. There have been some computer issues. This is the revised first chapter. Read it if you want. Or not, if you don't.**

Chapter 1 The Arcade

Bright flashing lights. A too loud buzz of voices offset by high laughs and shouts. The ring of games, tickets zipping out, music blaring, the dings of hits and misses.

Sherlock isn't quite sure why Mycroft has abandoned him in the cesspit called an "arcade." It isn't like the teenager stuck around to play anything and happened to forget his little brother when he left. No, Mycroft left shortly after depositing a couple of handful of tokens in Sherlock's pockets. Meanwhile, the room around him is a seething, writhing mass of adolescent horror and the seven-year-old quickly makes his escape.

Scaling the games without getting spotted isn't as easy as he probably makes it seem. There are so many cameras and watchful parents for much of anything to evade attention for long. But Sherlock is small. His awkwardly angular limbs

- "Does he eat enough, dear?" asked one of the women as his mother's tea parties. A too thin litter boy glares from his him hiding place under the stairs. One of the boards flip up and reveals his mother's parlor.

His mother laughed. It was not the smooth one that he was used to, but harsh and self-depreciating. "Under threat of having it pumped into his stomach, yes. Getting food into that boy is like trying to skin an elephant - it takes forever and the mess almost isn't worth it." The other ladies tittered and conversation moved on. -

fit together almost like puzzle pieces allowing him into the smallest darkest places available. It is challenging, moving in the space provided behind some of the games so they do not overheat in sumer, but he manages, winding up on top of a locker of some type. His position allows him an excellent vantage point for viewing the entirety of the arcade.

Sneering slightly, Sherlock settles into his habit of people watching. Nothing of interest really catches his eye and the lives of those below him are so ridiculously easy to discern that he does it almost on autopilot.

There is a boy playing Whack-a-Mole to the far left. His movements are jerky, his hits overly hard. He doesn't really pay attention to the points that gather on the display, just adds more tokens. The the game pauses to scroll out his winning tickets and he glares at the few mother-father-children groups. - His parents are fighting. He's taking his frustration out on defenseless plastic animals. He hates that other people can be happy while he is not.

A pair of fraternal twins are surrounded by a group of high school boys where they are participating in a pinball challenge. The girl is winning, a wide grin on her face, hair up in a sloppy bun. She has a gym bag at her feet with the name of an expensive private school plastered on it. Before arriving at the arcade she changed clothes, obviously more comfortable in street attire than the uniform, but she doesn't want her old friends thinking she's changed now that she goes to a fancy school.

It is all so obvious, so tedious. The boy by the pool table has a crush on his best friend, but doesn't want to be found out as gay. A young girl hiding behind a shooting game is picked on almost constantly by her older sister. She is both fearful and near the point of violent rage. A woman by the counter is having an affair, likely with her boss.

Quite by accident Sherlock finds his attention drawn to a group of children around his age. They are a rowdy bunch, pushing and shoving to get to the front so they can see what is happening, but for the moment seem content to spend their tokens huddled around one of the claw machines. It is amusing how few of them actually succeeds in grabbing a toy, and none manage to drop one in the bin. One by one they all lose interest, or tokens, and leave to find new games or relatives who can provide them with more.

Sherlock snorts, fingers drifting to the pocket full of tokens Mycroft had insisted he have. It wouldn't be terribly hard to grab a toy with the stupid claw and prove to the other children that he will always be superior. Whenever he was forced to interact with children his age they would give him such arrogant looks.

-"Sherlock can't play right!" one would say. The others would all laugh, united against a common victim. "Can't even play pretend. The knights always win! The dragon always dies! Don't you get it?"

"But the dragon would have the tactical advantage," he'd insist amid the jeers."It can spray fire from a long distance, far greater than any weapon a knight would have-"

"Shut up! You're so stupid!" And chants of 'Sherlock's Stupid!' would arise from within the mocking, hateful laughter.-

To be able to prove, for once, that he's better than them at something they take pleasure in - a grin breaks across the pale boy's face and he leaps down off his perch, landing with a confident grace only a child could takes seconds to arrive at the claw game, and his unexpected presence draws the other children out of the mob. Sherlock stands still for just a moment, the required three tokens in his hand, studying the multicolored mess of toys. One of the tines on the claw is weak, this he knows from previous observation. However, if he grabs two toys, the two in the far right corner that pin each other down, he will be able to use that third tine as a balancing point and drop both toys in the bucket.

The tokens slip easily into the coin slot and a flashing light indicates he can move the claw. It take a bit of careful maneuvering with the controller as he is unfamiliar with how it moves, but only takes a moment to become accustomed. Then Sherlock has the claw hovering over his chosen prises. He smirks and pushes the little red button, watching with unconcealed glee as the two toys are scooped up just as he predicted. The other kids gasp in awe, shoving at each other, whispering loudly over the background music. Anderson, a boy two years ahead of Sherlock in school, roughly pushes the younger boy away from the game as soon as he has his prizes.

Tiring of the excitement, Sherlock retreats to his previous perch with his toys. They are dumb, but soft with plush fur and pastel colors. One he believes to be a dog, the other a rabbit, but it is hard to tell as they both look so similar. Still, it is more than the other kids have so he plays with them drearily when people watching begins to take on a monotonous feel.

It isn't until the mob of children, mostly Anderson and his friends, disperses from around the claw machine that Sherlock finally allows his sight to drift in that direction again. A little blonde boy with his left arm wrapped in a bright blue cast is standing in front of the glass box, a small hand resting on the controls. Sherlock knows that the boy doesn't have any more tokens, having watched him spend all of them easily beating a group of teenagers at one of the first person shooting games. The boys had been less than pleased, but a girl a few years younger than the offended teenagers quickly pulled her brother away. After, Sherlock had seen the little blonde give all his tickets to a toddler. She had really wanted one of the prizes and almost had enough tickets to get it, but neither she nor her brothers had enough tickets. The boy had just smiled and handed over his hard earned bundle.

Interested despite himself, Sherlock watches as the boy looks around carefully before slipping unnoticed into the bucket. First one foot, then his injured arm, disappears before he ducks into the seemingly very small space, completely concealed. Intrigued and wondering how the smaller boy manages to do anything with a broken arm, let alone fitting into a bucket designed for small stuffed toys, the curly haired boy settles in to observe. From his vantage point he can see the careful shifting of toys and a flash of golden hair before everything is still again and the blonde is once again out in the open. No one except for Sherlock has noticed the short excursion into the claw machine.

Right before the little blonde disappears into the crowd he looks up. Brown clashes with blue for a second before the other boy's face lights up in a brilliant grin, one front tooth missing. Sherlock manages a smile back, barely, and the blonde skips off, hedgehog and black cat tucked safely under his broken arm.


	2. Chapter 2 The Fair

**AN: Well, this one took less time to edit that chapter one. It's not a lot longer than it was orginally, but it'll do. I'm working my way up to editing chapter six, which I know I need to fix because, well, they're ten. I would feel bad about only changing that one, though, so here you go, chapter two. :D Review, if you want.**

Chapter Two - The Fair

It is obvious to the youngest Holmes brother that this is the summer of bad decisions. At least for Mycroft. That, or his older brother is attempting to slowly torture him to death by way of over exposure to stupidity. Briefly, Sherlock wonders what Mummy would say if Mycroft brought him home half dead with his brain leaking out of his ears.

Unfortunately, that is not likely to happen. Adults tend to become distressed when children suddenly collapse and then he would have to put up with, Sherlock shudders, doctors. He's been to enough doctors already, thank you very much. His father insisted whenever he does something strange. Apparently, little boys shouldn't be reading by age two. And they should talk before they turn five. And they should be more interested in other children, not seeing how long it takes to pass out from holding his breath.

That had only been once! Sure, he'd been under water at the time, grudgingly participating in a swimming lesson, but it was the only way to ensure his body didn't overrule his mind. If there was no air to breathe, then there was no way to cheat. The experiment ended rather abruptly. The swim teacher had been fired, sued, and imprisoned. Sherlock had to stay a week trapped in a hospital bed. He'd had everything under control. It's not like he wanted to die.

So, perhaps, seeing if his brain would actually melt because of stupidity isn't such a great idea, but neither was Mycroft stranding him at a carnival. Sherlock winces at the overly bright, clashing colors of the booths. Food carts are everywhere, lines stretching to the dozens with screaming children, exhausted parents, and poorly behaved teenagers. Other stalls contain overpriced jewelry or pathetically crafted merchandising from popular television shows. Another corner, the one Sherlock is currently attempting to escape, contains fixed games with cheap prizes and unstable rides.

Everything smells of sick, sweat, and deep fried foods. It hangs in the still air, weighted down by the sun.

Sherlock shudders again, struggling not to gag. It would be completely undignified to throw up on accident, even if doing it on purpose got him sent to the doctor three separate times. He has finally reached the chain link fence surrounding the infernal pit of misery. Maybe he could climb over it? But no. Mycroft is doubtlessly watching from somewhere. Perhaps screaming is a better answer? He's young. Grownup won't get suspicious if he gets "scared" and starts crying because he "lost his brother." Mycroft wouldn't believe it for a second, but Sherlock knows his brother is working at building a reputation.

A smile sneaks over the brunet child's face. A chance to potentially harm Mycroft's budding reputation is too good to pass up.

Unfortunately, Sally Donovan finds him before he can implement his plan.

"Hey Freak!" she sneers, childish face twisting unattractively. "Didn't think I'd see you here. Thought you'd know enough to stay away, specially after the arcade." Sherlock is certain that she intends to sound threatening, but, as with most things having to do with Sally Donovan, it comes off as petty. He does raise an eyebrow at her though. Her interference is unwelcome, but he refuses to stoop so low as crying, fake or real, around someone he has the misfortune of knowing. Especially Sally Donovan. If it were Anderson though... There are some things he might lower himself to do just to get Anderson in trouble.

Instead of ignoring her as he normally would have, though, Sherlock turns to face her directly. "Donovan," he replies evenly, shoving small hands in the pockets of his coat. It's warm out, almost hot given the concentration of people of kitchens, but he refuses to take it off. "I see your parents have been overindulgent with the amount of sweets you've had. Three cotton candies? Surely you know how bad that is. You're going to be sick at some point."

Sally growls, wiping her sticky and on dirt-stained jeans. It is a rather pitiful sound. "I don't care, Freak. You cheated on that game!" The grin stretches back over Sherlock's pale face, a bit too wide and predatory for a small child. Sally's real reason for her current anger at him has been revealed, not that it was hard to deduce. Last week's adventure at the arcade was mostly boring, but just a little bit satisfying even is Mummy won't let him set fire to the prizes he won.

"Cheated? I can guarantee a greater success rate at any game you so desire." He doesn't really want to play a game, but he can't resist a challenge and annoying Sally Donovan helps stave off the boredom. If he can annoy Anderson without actually having to see the older boy at the same time then all the better. And Sally is sure to run and complain to the older boy the first chance she gets.

"You're on!" Sally quickly scans over the surrounding games as she tries to remember which one she is best at. Sherlock takes three steps towards the balloon-dart game before she points at it with a slightly angry gleam in her eyes. He saw her playing it earlier, giggling with some other girl as they tossed the darts, Sherlock can admit that Sally Donovan is rather talented at it for an eight-year-old.

Sally pays for them both, almost shoving the money into the attendant's hand.

Five darts each with heavy metal heads and flimsy, three-pronged tails made or poor quality plastic. The balloons are ten feet away and only partially inflated to increase the chances of the fair making money. If you hit five balloons then you get one of the prizes. If you miss even one then you don't. Sally is wearing one of the oversized t-shirts hanging from the ceiling. Sherlock observed that game before and now recognizes how he will have to throw and aim to hit and pop the balloons.

They both throw. Sherlock's dart skims a red balloon, tearing a hole in it before falling heavily to the ground. He frowns. The hit still counts, but he isn't happy with it. The next one bounces off an exploding green balloon. The third dart thunks solidly into the wooden backboard, a speared bit of white latex dangling off it. Sherlock's grin is slowly returning with each successful it. Sally appears to have had some luck and is holding two darts as well, looking rather triumphant.

Sherlock returns his attention to the game, gaze drifting over the remaining twelve or so balloons. There are three in front of Sally that hold some appeal, mostly because she will be aiming for those. He feels confident enough now to try and sabotage her own game, but the likelihood of his own dart missing its target is still rather high. He thinks he can hit the red one six feet off the ground to his left. There is no rule about moving. Two pink ones and another green are also within his range.

He aims, loosing at the green one. It is more deflating than some of the others and air wheezes out around the dart. Sherlock doesn't bother watching it collapse. He turns and throws his last dart at one of the pink balloons. It strikes and falls away, but there is a rapidly widening hole in the stretched latex. Pride wells in his chest, his blue eyes dancing with it. The shocked looking attendant gives him his choice of prizes, of which Sherlock chooses an oversized teddy bear. Maybe Mummy will be distracted by this and not watch the other two toys as carefully. He really wants to measure the reactions of flame on polyester.

Grin wide, Sherlock turns to Sally who is staring at her last dart angrily. Her second one had missed its target by a good three inches leaving her without a prize to claim and horrified at having lost to Sherlock Holmes of all people.

He opens his mouth ready to torment her with words of inadequacy when something bright yellow smacks into his forehead and sticks there with all the power of cheap suction. Sherlock staggers backwards a step or two, more surprised than anything else, and yanks the dart off his face.

"It's not nice to brag," a calm, slightly exasperated voice says. Sherlock glares at the small blonde boy still pointing a toy gun at him, ignoring the game operator asking if he is okay. Secured under the cast on the boy's left arm is a stuffed black cat, a bit of candy corn dangling from on ear. A hedgehog is hanging precariously out of his pocket. Sally looks torn between crying and laughing.

"Thieving isn't advisable either," Sherlock snips. He wants to be angry. He really does. The boy, however, with blonde hair and sunny smile, not to mention obvious disregard for rules and rather excellent aim, does not inspire it. Despite that, he appears to be a completely normal kid. That part confuses the brunet. He doesn't like kids, let alone the ordinary ones. But, he can't bring himself to be angry, or even slightly annoyed. Sherlock settles for pouting as the blonde giggles.


	3. Chapter 3 The Museum

**Hello again. The edited version of chapter three at the cost of putting off homework. Hope you like it if you're bothering to read the revisions.**

Chapter Three - The Museum

The violin was, perhaps, Sherlock's greatest find that summer. He'd been scrounging around in the attic looking for something, anything, that would drive Mycroft up a wall or out a window, and tripped over the old leather case. Even knowing what was inside didn't prepare him for the sight of shining, almost red wood. Only three of the four original strings were intact and the bow was frayed almost to the point of worthlessness, but overall it was perfect. Mycroft, after all, hates discordant noises. A violin played by an untrained seven-year-old would be amazing retribution.

Sherlock might have been a bit hasty with his plan, however, as screeching strings at three in the morning tend to wake up everyone in the house, not just the intended victim. As punishment, Mummy decided he was to have violin lessons. Mycroft didn't think that much of a punishment, but Sherlock did. Two hours every day, right after school when he usually wanders around outside collecting things to experiment on later, he has to sit still and listen to the tutor drone on about proper finger placement, how to place his chin on the chin rest, and the correct way to hold the bow.

A live frog is Mycroft's bed turned out to be far more amusing.

It is now three months into his second year of primary school and Sherlock finds himself longing for his next violin lesson. He wants to be at home, carefully picking out a tune on the gleaming strings before his tutor arrives to yell at him. ("No! Sherlock, don't fiddle with the strings like that! You'll wear them out too soon. And don't touch the bow! No, stop making that infernal racket! I know you can play better than that." Followed, of course, with Sherlock's malicious grin and the loudest, most grating shriek he's managed to pull out of the abused strings.) He wants to be softly pulling the bow over the strings in a simple melody, after the tutor's left, just for Mummy. She likes it when he plays nice things and those are the only moments when he tries not to mess up.

He can't be there, though. No, Sherlock is sitting squished between the open window and two other children on a stuffy bus. No matter how expensive the private school, no matter how much he begged and threw tantrums, even going so far as to trash the his room and Mycroft's, shredding their books and homework, school trips are unavoidable. And, when he does get home, he has to clean up the mess he made. No violin lesson. No time playing outside for a week after everything is put back to rights. No experiments. Sherlock slams his fist against the metal wall in a fit of petulant rage, attempting vainly to ignore the his fellow students. All this trouble for a stupid museum.

Sherlock would normally enjoy a visit to a museum. It gives him the chance to see the old discoveries, to tackle and solves the mysteries of the past. Today is different though. He can ask Mummy questions and bother the so-called experts working in the rooms as much as he wants Today he has to be with children who have no respect for quiet or research. Today he has to listen to a guide and fill out a worksheet, no questions and no wandering off. Today he is forced to interact with the snotty brats that dare claim to be the same species as him because Mummy would not let him stay home. Sherlock is most decidedly not happy.

At the door, the guide hands out flimsy yet incredibly sturdy orange bracelets, the plastic kind with a snap that is near impossible to get of unless you know how. While the man attempts to explain the rules of the museum - be quiet, don't talk while I'm talking, don't wander off, don't take off the bracelet, don't run, don't yell, don't touch - to a gaggle of excited, whispering children, Sherlock concentrates on dismantling his bracelet without alerting his teacher or the slightly overwhelmed guide.

The first chance he gets Sherlock slips away from the chattering mess and into a less occupied room. There are a couple of people there, mostly young parents with babies and old people. The escapee quickly shrugs out of his school blazer, tying it haphazardly around his waist to hide the school emblem. Several minutes pass in the blissful haze of acquiring new knowledge. Sherlock knows that it won't be long before his name is called over the loud speakers. His brand of trouble is rather distinctive so his teacher will surely notice the he is gone soon, but he really can't bring himself to care. It's better without the other children around.

"John!" The shout comes from far off, a couple of rooms away but still loud enough to be heard clearly. Sherlock doesn't pay much mind to it other than to scowl. Then it comes again, distracting him into analyzing it. The voice too young to be that of a scolding mother. Probably, he thinks, from a ten or eleven-year-old girl, most likely an older sister attempting to keep track of a younger sibling. Sherlock is still not interested. The mummy exhibit occupies most of his attention as he tries to determine the types of dirt that remains on the bandages.

There is the telltale thumping of running feet and heavy breathing before a small hand touches his elbow. Startled, Sherlock spins to stare into the brown eyes of the little blonde boy. The boy from the arcade. The boy from the fair. The boy who still has the black cat clutched tightly in his little fist. There is only one difference besides clothing: his arm is no longer in a cast.

"You shot me," Sherlock accuses with a pout. The boy giggles, covering his mouth with both hands. The cat's head nearly covers his right eye; the picture of an adorable child. "Well, go on, introduce yourself. I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

The brunette extends one pale, long fingered hand expectantly. The smaller boy responds with a firm, well-practiced grip probably taught by the father. "John Watson. I'm six!" His grin is nearly blinding, that missing tooth almost complete grown in. Sherlock smiles back, pleased to have finally met the mysterious blonde. Oddly his desire to see this boy, John, to discover what makes him tick is not appeased with this meeting. If anything, he wants more and that is very unusual. He already knows everything, what more is there?

There is a military background, a father or older brother although the latter is less likely, evidenced by John's haircut and the slightly stiff, mostly imitated set of his shoulders. From the earlier shout and the fact that John was running leads to the idea that he is at the museum with an older sister. That the smaller boy does not looking lost or nervous suggests that he is used to being left alone in strange places. Sherlock can see more, the wealth of John's family and his eating habits by the state of his clothes, how active he is based on his shoes, where he plays by the dirt under his nails, how and with which hand he writes based on the callouses on his fingers, but John is staring at him, their hands still connected between them. Obviously Sherlock is expected to reply and John is oddly undeterred by the long silence..

"I turned seven in May," Sherlock says, some level of pride in his voice. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at school?" He switches hands so that he can easily pull John away from the questing sister. John doesn't protest, happily following the older boy away from the mummy exhibit and into one of the less crowded rooms.

"Harry's class took a trip today. Mum decided she wanted me to come because they wouldn't be home until after school and there is no one to watch me. Then she had to leave for a moment and left Harry in charge." John grins again, keeping hold of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock finds that he doesn't mind the contact even though he normally would. It is the first time someone his age has willingly touched him in such a manner. "I saw you then and decided to come say hi." His grip in the black cat tightens drawing Sherlock's attention to the hedgehog threatening to fall out of John's pocket.

The brunette snags the escaping toy, setting it on his smaller friend's head with an impish smile. Friend. It is the first time he has been able to use that word in regard to someone real. An actual living human. As they giggle over the hedgehog Sherlock has the feeling that John will agree with him.


	4. Chapter 4 Valentines Day

**So, I pretty much rewrote this entire chapter. Generally it is the same thing, but it's different. A lot different. Anyway, if it's not cohesive or something, tell me. I might have forgotten to delete some of the old chapter or something.**

Chapter Four - Valentines Day

Valentines Day. February 14th. A day when everything is bathed in pink, red, and white. There are hearts, unfortunately none of them are anatomically correct. There are flowers. There is chocolate. There is candy. And everyone is in the most pathetic, most sappy mood available to mankind. To Sherlock, who conveniently forgets about the fake, economically driven holiday every year, it's like stepping into an alternate universe as soon as he exits his house.

"I'm sick," he says into the phone, not even bothering to fake it. He could make himself sick, but then he wouldn't be able to see John later. Harry promised to watch them in the park this afternoon and Sherlock doesn't want to miss the opportunity to spend time with his friend. He's still trying to devise a way of convincing Mummy to take him away from all this love-y dove-y nonsense without missing his, he frowns, playdate. It is not a playdate. It's a meeting between friends. Playdates are for children and those of limited intelligence.

Mummy laughs softly. "I bet you are," she says. "Shall I pick you up and take you to the doctor?

That makes the boy freeze. "No! Um, I mean, I'm not that sick, but I think I should come home and rest. You know, so I'm not sick when I go see John." He flutters a hand dismissively even though she can't see it. The plan doesn't work. Mummy is insistent that if he is sick enough to need to come home from school, then he is too sick to see John. End of story. No refunds. Sherlock glares at the wall as he hands up the phone, fingers curling into a tight fist.

Having a friend doesn't mean that John should be used against him.

Sherlock has been studying the symptoms of "romantic" holidays and events ever since his father forgot about his anniversary. Men become nervous, sweating beneath collars, holding roses with shaking hands, or when they forget, become panicked as time for heading home to expectant girlfriends wives and girldfriends approaches. Women are better at hiding what they feel; only too bright eyes and giggling betray them. They seem to want an elusive perfection, the man on a white horse to come and sweep them off their feet, and disappointment greets them every time. Teenagers are worse. Suicide rates, something Sherlock tracks without his father's knowledge, increase around Valentine's Day, as do chocolate, ice cream, and tissue sales for the rest of the month.

It doesn't stop with those over the age of puberty. No, children Sherlock's age have picked up on the mania with the enthusiasm of the ignorant, encouraged by teachers and parents to participate in. Innocent kisses, meaningless relationships, and a surplus of sugar sweeps through the younger generation. Four-year-old Molly gave Sherlock a small bag of candy with an equally small kiss on the cheek before classes started that morning. That has been his first clue as to what day it was, and confusion quickly dissipated into some snide remark that almost sent the little girl running away in tears.

The only thing Sherlock cares to know about this time of year is that tests will be soon, the endless holiday music has been put on pause for another several months, and John's birthday was in January. John is seven now, the same age as Sherlock for another few months and then Sherlock will be eight. It is a huge gap that seems impossible to cross sometimes, as if the distance is not months but miles, light years. Intelligence does not factor into it, even if Sherlock is in his second year of schooling and John is in his first (that is another insurmountable distance, a chasm unbroken by bridge or boat. It is probably a good thing they they do not attend the same school.) because John is so much smarter than everyone else Sherlock knows. Except Mummy. And Mycroft. And Sherlock himself, but that is reasonable.

Still, the brunet marks the date on his mental calendar as one to avoid. Maybe next year he can make himself ill and skip school.

Harry and John are waiting outside the gates of Sherlock's school when classes get out. The girl, twelve now, looks annoyed. She's cut her hair again as it is shorter than when Sherlock saw it at John's birthday. Now it brushes the her ears instead of her shoulders. The make up, heavily applied, matches the style of other girls her age, as does the poor choice of clothing for the weather. Sherlock blinks at her, offering something that might resemble a smile, and turns his attention to John.

"Hey, 'lock!" the boy chirps. He doesn't have the cat or hedgehog in sight, "too old" to be playing with stuffed animals now that he's seven, but that's only according to Harry. They're probably in his backpack. Sherlock returns the greeting and they share a grin when Harry grumbles at them to move along. She's not going to wait for a couple of brats when she has plans. "Harry got me a book on medicine. I'm gunna be a doctor when I grow up." It's the truth. However, John's words often say more than the truth. This time it roughly translates to: Harry's bought me a bribe so that she can leave us alone in the park for a few hours without us telling.

"You can work on my ship then. I'm going be a pirate." The two race ahead of Harry, John waving back at his sister to tell her they'll be fine and that she can leave whenever she wants. Sherlock doesn't have to look backwards to know that the girl has turned around. It's a different sort of freedom than when Mycroft abandons him somewhere. Whereas Harry is actually gone, the elder Holmes brother is always just out of sight, watching.

They settle in a sunny spot under a willow tree, shrugging out of jackets to lay down as a blanket. John's new book is carefully extracted from his back and set out between them. Sherlock finally stops to consider his friend, a word that still catches him off guard sometimes. A purple bruise is forming brightly on John's upper arm, revealed now that his jacket isn't in the way. One finger is swollen, like it was dislocated recently as bruising doesn't indicate a break. None of this surprises Sherlock. Bruises are normal because John is bullied by the older kids more than Sherlock is. Pride keeps them from telling, determined to solve the problem on their own.

"John?" Sherlock asks before they can begin reading. The blonde looks up at him curiously, no doubt catching the bit of hesitancy in his voice. "What is Valentines Day mean to normal people?" He hadn't really wanted to ask. He doesn't care. Not at all.

John smiles briefly before digging back into his backpack and coming up with a brown paper lunch bag. "Valentines Day for grownups is silly. I don't get it either. Harry says it's all about kissing and love and girl stuff. For us it means free candy. I guess that means we're better than the others, seeing through all the girl stuff."

Sherlock snorts. Across the field kids yell and scream in their play. "Yeah. We're better than them. All of them." He pauses for a moment in careful deliberation. "Girls are weird."

"Girls are icky," John corrects absently as he flips open the book. Sherlock looks down, finding a introduction to human anatomy. John studies the page with intent focus leading the older boy to do the same. No, not older. They are both seven now. Sherlock is not older until he turns eight.

Both ignore logic.

"Think of it as a day where you can get free candy," John explains again some time later. They are a chapter into the book now, not really studying. He dumps the entire bag of candy into the curly haired boy's lap as if to back up this statement. "If you tell the teachers the right thing, maybe start crying a little, they feel obligated to force the other children to give you some. Sharing is an important skill, you know." Sherlock suspects that John uses this skill whenever he can without drawing suspicion. Everyone falls for the large innocent brown eyes and honest expression.

That thought makes Sherlock stop to think even as he rummages through the candy on his lap. Everyone falls John's manipulations because he is cute and innocent. He's seen before how adults cave before tear-filled brown eyes and a quivering lip when Sherlock knows perfectly well that the smaller boy isn't in any pain, physical or otherwise. In fact, every time John decides to make a fuss about some injury made by another child, or a name called, he and Sherlock usually get ice cream.

Sherlock selects a piece of candy and grins. If John doesn't understand Valentines Day then it is unlikely he will either. He rather likes the explanation though. Free candy and advice on how to manipulate people; funny how the good kids appear to be better at that skill than the difficult ones.

He and John are better than everyone else. Someday they'll prove it to the world.


	5. Chapter 5 The Skull Part One

**HAHA! Okay, so this one is edited. Took longer than the others, school mostly, and I didn't have to completely rewrite it like I was expecting. Hopefully chapter six will be edited by Sunday. That one I would suggest reading even if you haven't been reading these others. Although, if you haven't read the edits then you probably won't know that I want chapter six read. **

Chapter Five - The Skull Part One

It is summer before Sherlock decides he is tired of meeting John at the park, summer before he learns about the wonderland behind John's house, before he is forced to acknowledge why John spends so much time smelling like the woods.

The house itself is on the smaller side of an average thee bedroom and definitely smaller than Homes Manor. Outside walls had been painted an unassuming shade of tan about ten years ago, when the house was built, but the color has since faded to unattractiveness. Perhaps to compensate is a small flower bed along the front side of the house, carefully maintained. Inside is different; walls are painted in soft cream tones that Sherlock thinks suits John very well. It doesn't fit Harry or the two Watson parents, though, or maybe that's just his bias. Pictures, tables, couches, chairs, and lamps are all slightly off center, off balance with the rest of the design, yet elegant in the odd way of asymmetrical patterns. All of the rooms are clean and ordered. The floor was recently vacuumed, the shelves dusted, movies and books organized in chronological, alphabetical order.

Sherlock could make a list of deductions pages long about the Watson family based on this evidence, but he refuses to let his brain acknowledge them. He doesn't care that Mrs. Watson spends six days a week at mid-level job to help supplement an army pension. He doesn't care that Mr. Watson is twitchy with the memories of war and holds the children to what Mummy would call "a disgracefully high level of obedience and perfection." He doesn't care that Harry is beginning to show signs of strain and that when she snaps, likely within the next three years, it will tear the fragile seams of the family apart.

He does not care. Really. Anderson would agree.

Except, it will be the end of the world before Sherlock willingly agrees with Anderson on anything. All it takes is a look at John's face when Sherlock pulls the younger boy silently out the back door to refute Anderson's statement that Sherlock is incapable of feelings. Sherlock cares. He cares about Mummy and Mycroft, but only sometimes. He most definitely cares about John Watson, otherwise every nuance of the Watson family would have been picked apart and degraded by his overly active mind. Deduced. Examined. Exposed.

So Sherlock pulls John out the back door and over the leaning chain link fence separating Watson land from park forest. The easiest way of not saying anything is to remove himself from the situation.

The woods are cool and pleasant, a welcome difference from the agonisingly hot and humid weather just outside the treeline. Everything is green and brown and bright, alive Sherlock supposes as he watches John leap off a log. Laughter echoes like music, twining with birdsong and the wind. It is chime-like, innocent with the vast complexities of simplicity, a melody of strength and beauty. It hurts a little to know that the strength will be tested and the beauty of childhood will be stripped away like old paint, reforged and reshaped into some new person. Someone Sherlock won't know quite so intricately. An unknown that is limitless in possibility.

Then John is there, a beaming grin on his youthful face, hand outstretched in endless invitation. Follow me, it says. Come away forever. How can he not accept?

The pale boy takes the hand of his younger companion and they run, lost in the joy of being children.

o0O0o

The sun is lower now but the sticky heat of summer still hovers just above the trees. Inside their shade it is cool, neither hot nor cold, but a pleasant middle ground perfect for running and jumping. Something crashes a ways out, an alarm-trap set several hours ago made of a tangle of string and cans. Sherlock and John, toy shovels biting deep in the soft soil a few meters off a shallow trail, pay it no mind. Time has disintegrated in their play.

Sherlock, the former captain of a regal pirate ship, has been forced to abandon his vessel and crew by the merciless and terrible Commander Harriet of the Royal Navy. Together with fellow survivor of the sinking ship and former physician John, he had no other choice but to take their small craft, a skiff, on a dark and mysterious island. The commander chased them through the Most Terrible Forest on All Earth for days, with their only refuge being the nights the commander claimed to rest. They have paused here in a nearly safe spot to catch their breath on this day, secure in the knowledge of Harriet's distance. For now the pair of rugged and most villainous pirates have time to seek the treasure Captain Sherlock is sure was buried here long ago.

"How long until the commander catches up?" John asks breathlessly. A small frown of concentration graces his sweaty brow as he jumps on the half buried metal blade of his shovel. It sinks in a few more precious inches before the seven-year-old doctor is satisfied with its depth. He leans heavily on the handle to assist in prying up the fresh clump of dirt. Captain Sherlock pants, struggling to lift his own shovel full of soil into the pile closer to the entrance to the trail.

"Not too long now." The code for five minutes falls easily from his lips as the captain grins. They can hear Commander Harriet a ways down the trail shouting curses and Royal Navy code. ("When I catch you two, I'm gunna kill you! Filthy little brats. I'm telling Mum!") Captain Sherlock consider hiding in a tree and studying this new code, unfamiliar with nearly everything except King Mycroft's personal patterns, but dismisses the thought to Plan B. Digging a hole is far more entertaining. "She's tiring," he finally whispers. "If she doesn't manage to find us soon it is likely that she will retreat and request another ship from the greater Royal Navy. Worse, she might call the king!" A dramatic toss of dark curls accompanies the quiet exclamation.

The king, they both know, doesn't have the slightest idea of who John is, let alone the commander. It would be an amusing call if Commander Harriet actually managed it.

John giggles, dirty hands covering his mouth and leaving smudges on the tanned skin. Both pirates are filthy, dirt smeared over their faces, sweat forming muddy tracks. The desperate chase has lasted the better part of a three day period through the tangled leaves, vines, trees, and the sparse yet incredibly slippery muddy spot is evident in the amount of dirt and greenery caked onto their torn clothing. Only their bare feet and scratched are relatively dirt free from a recent hike up a stream, but that lapse in camouflage is quickly being solved by their relentless search for treasure.

Shovels dip down into the deep, for young pirates, hole. The metal blades bump and shift against each other, a mock battle of swords that barely gets acknowledged with a smile when John's shovel crunches down into something white.

"The treasure!" Captain Sherlock crows, accidentally giving away their position to the far off commander. He abandons the shovels in favor of falling to the ground, digging with hand and arms at the chipped bits of white. Doctor John collapses with an equal level of dramatic talent. He begins clawing at the dirt a little ways away from his frantic captain, gathering bits and pieces of similar white fragments.

Minutes pass in a haze of excitement, something new, an unexpected discovery. It is a treasure worthy of two brave pirates, but the commander arrives too suddenly, too soon. A setup, they're sure.

They don't have time to contemplate their treasure. Harry finds them, crashing through the bushes and grabbing shirt backs before they can think to escape. Immediately the fierce pirates are little boys again, grubby from an afternoon of play and still caught in the strange sort of brotherhood from the game. The wayward almost siblings sequester the treasure in pockets knowing that Harry will not approve. That is reason enough to keep it.

The grin they share is full of secrets and mischief.

o0O0o

Sherlock doesn't mention the strained tension between the Watson parents. He doesn't mention the way Harry glares at the adults over her glass. He does not mention the heavy stench of whiskey lingering in the kitchen. He doesn't because John can notices it too, notices it all and maybe more. It will only hurt his small friend more if Sherlock brings it up and Sherlock doesn't want to do that. Not now. Not ever.

Later, in John's room before Mummy comes to get him, they poor over the treasures. Bone fragments, sharp and grubby against John's blue blanket, are interesting. The half skull, broken now, rests crookedly in Sherlock's lap. He caresses the pointed teeth carefully as John studies a freshly cleaned brass tag. "Mr. Tibbs," the blonde decides at the same time Sherlock whispers, "I want to keep it."

They stare, quiet for a moment in shock. Amazingly, it is the first time they have spoken over each other. Then, as if realizing when he has said and how it might be considered a bit Not Good, Sherlock's brain begins formulating arguments for his continued possession of the cat skull.

John doesn't say anything for several long, painful moments. Has he gone too far this time, said too much? Sherlock bites his lip, blue eyes wide. Then John speaks; it is with a sweet little smile that wrinkles his nose adorably and causes his eyes to shine with repressed laughter. "Quite alright, Captain!" he chirps brightly. "The treasure will be safer where you can keep an eye on it. Wouldn't want any ghost to come and haunt us."

An answering, more hesitant smile crosses Sherlock's face. John doesn't mind that it's a Bit Not Good. "Thanks," he says shyly. It is an unusual expression for him, but John's sweet smile returns and they sit in a comfortable, slightly bashful silence until Mrs. Watson calls them down for Sherlock to go home.

Three weeks later Mycroft finds the mostly shattered skull. It is properly disposed of in less than ten minutes. Sherlock fills his brother's bed with live insects.


	6. Chapter 6: The Idea

**I'm BAAAAAAAACCKK! Aren't you all so pleased to see me? It's been, what, a year? More? I have no idea. Sorry. I feel kinda bad because one of my stories of AO3 has fourteen chapters. Although, I'm not in that fandom. I just write fic for it. Anyway, this chapter came out of nowhere and I have an idea for the next one. **

**Outside ideas are very welcome. Really. Please.**

Chapter 6 - The Idea

The idea begins as most of Sherlock's ideas still. It is a stray thought that nearly gets lost in the twisted maze the young genius is turning his mind into. Not a simple maze either, but a three dimensional labyrinth. Each corridor, hall, room, and trap moves independently of the rest, switching positions depending on what sort of information he is looking for. Scent. Color. Person. Place. Various chemical compounds and reactions. John.

John is almost a maze of his own. His is a collections of threads that tangle in and out of all previous observations Sherlock has made. People to children, the makeup of the Watson family: sister, mother, father - the military, army branch, wars - playgrounds, children, friends, emotions: happy to smile, sad to tears, angry to frown - bullying, hate, crime, murder to death: unnatural and natural causes - disease to illness: plague: fever, coughing, sore throat, vomiting, weight loss - symptoms of the flu -

John has the flu. It is annoying, Sherlock decides as he flops haphazardly across his bed. He is like a cat, spread out and taking up too much room for his size. Why did John have to get the flu now? Now, when Sherlock is nearing desperate to escape Mycroft with his haughty eyes and condescending voice. Thinks he's the Queen, he does. Stupid Mycroft. Not even the violin - Sherlock is most adept at making his shriek. Oh sure, he can play too, when he wants, but it's amusing watching the tutor cringe each time he raises the bow to the strings, unsure if the boy is going to make music or dying cat noises. But even the violin can soothe him. No neck in his palm or rest under his chin; he's restless, anxious to be moving, running. He wants real trees, not the carefully pruned orchard or the flower garden. He needs the ocean and a ship, the commander of an enemy vessel firing cannons over the railings and chasing him and his first mate across an island while they search for treasure. He wants John, his friend, his secret-keeper, and his partner in crime. He wants him, needs him, craves him like a man in the desert craves water. Just a sip.

Mummy says he needs to wait because John is sick. It's not fair!

Sherlock could be sick. He could catch the flu. Stan, the gardener, was absent for close to two weeks with the flu. Surely there is something in the greenhouse that has been coughed on. Touched. Breathed next to. Then, if Sherlock were sick he could go to the Watson house where he and John could be sick together. He wouldn't be bored then, able to observe the effects of a virus as a victim and an outsider. There could be marvelous amounts of data! And a lack of boredom and Mycroft.

Mycroft is home, back from one of Father's business trips that Sherlock is never allowed to attend. FIfteen years old and more full of himself than ever. Himself and cake. Always cake. Never cookies - which means more for Sherlock, admittedly - or ice cream or pie, just cake. Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, rainbow with frosting and sprinkles if that's all that is available. And he doesn't spend anytime running around like Sherlock does after eating lots of sweets. No, he's even managed to worm his way out of the physical education classes his fancy school says are mandatory. Mummy lets him. Because Mycroft is the favorite, special, the oldest. He doesn't light things on fire. He doesn't get in trouble at school. He isn't one more incident away from being expelled.

Sherlock has a theory. Teachers don't actually want children to learn. Oh sure, there are the little things like reading and writing that are necessary for living in society, but they take forever to teach. It takes three or more years before students are proficient. And math! Only teenager begin learning anything vaguely interesting. Teenagers! And that is still only the very bottom of what might be interesting! Grownup try so hard to keep kids dumb, pliant and squishable, ready to conform to any role society deems. So they isolate anyone who shows initiative. Kids like Sherlock and John who are smart - only, John knows how to play the system. Keep his head down - are made appear wrong, violent, troublemakers.

Sherlock is not a troublemaker. Mostly. And when he is, he's only curious. It wasn't his intention to get Peter sick. He didn't even know the boy was allergic to cats, let alone to the point that his throat was so swollen he nearly asphyxiated. And the cat running wild in the classroom mostly wasn't his fault. And the fire; well, adults need to be more reasonable. He wanted to test the flammability of certain materials - "But Mummy! It was an experiment! For Science!" - and figured the chemistry classroom was a far more controlled environment than any other he was likely to get. And he could have explained the acid on the play structure had they given him a chance.

The boy groans, flailing gracelessly onto his back. Then he yells as loud as he can, turning it into a shriek between one breath and the next. No words, just a constant barrage of sounds as he attempts to match his violin at its angriest. His fists pound on the mattress. Chewed nails - he never bites his nails, when did that happen? - catch the fabric and rip. Pain lances us his fingers. Blood swells to the surface, not interesting, but a betrayal of his body because it fails to alleviate the draining, pulling, sucking sensation in his mind, like it's dissolving. Melting. Feet kick out, catching the headboard and slamming the bed into the wall.

"Mummy!" someone shouts. It's Mycroft sound and Mycroft shape and Sherlock hate, hate hates him. And there's pressure on his wrists, pulling, pressing, pushing, holding him down, but not still, not without hurting him so Sherlock flails. He twists. Turns. Squirms and kicks and bites and tastes blood, but his brother still holds on, tells him to hush, calm down, everything's fine. Footsteps in the hallway. Knees on his arm. Sharp pain.

Poison in his veins. It burns like he can't move, skin too tight. He's crying. Shaking and unable to stay still even under the chemical effect. Trapped in the creeping, seeping, leeching feeling. The terrifying nothing that comes with a lack of constant information. The film just clicking over and over again while nothing plays on the screen. Empty, and it's hateful.

"It's not working. Shouldn't it be working?"

"I can't give him more, My. His body wouldn't be able to handle it."

"Can't we do something?!"

"...I...I don't know."

"How many-"

"Third time since his birthday. I hate doing this to him. He's my baby."

"My baby brother. Star bright and burning too fast."

"Hmm, yes. Watch him a moment? I have an idea."

"Always."

Sherlock drifts. No. He isn't drifting. He's drowning, surrounded by the vicious, viscous waves that pull him under, deeper down than air and light and sound. They flip him over and over and over until he has no idea which way is up. He tries to swim. Kicks with arms and legs that are heavy and useless. He's going to die here. He's dying. There's no bright light, no Heaven's Gate or whatever is supposed to meet him at the end, if there even is something. Is there? Why would there be? It makes to sense. The dying die and then they are dead. What use is dead if you're not dead? Can you die again in Heaven or are you just forced to live forever with your eyes open? It sounds dreadful. Worse than drowning.

And then, "Sherlock?" The voice is raspy with disuse and stuffed with illness and just plain wrong over the phone, but it's John. He can hear John. John the puzzle. John the maze. John who he never, ever wants to solve because he doesn't want to know if John ends. John who evolves and learns. John who can keep up. John. John. John. "Your mum said you weren't feeling well. Catch a flu, too? Silly. If you're sick, it'll be longer til we can see each other again." John who is sturdy and stable and brilliant. John who offers and hand to a drowning boy without fear of being pulled in because John is fearless. He's never been scared of Sherlock. Not once. Not even when Sherlock deserved it pushing too hard just to see, just to test the boundaries.

John who talks even though it must hurt his throat because he knows, somehow, that Sherlock needs it. Can't answer but needs it. Curls around the phone and breathes it. Wants to sink in until he can wrap sturdy, safe, steady, still John's voice around him like a blanket and just be. Be John, who is never ruffled. Not that Sherlock has seen. Will see. Ever wants to see.

**Mycroft at fifteen can too be poetic. :P**


End file.
